Cry of Eternity
by hregn
Summary: Most humans would give up their lives to live forever. Well, most don't know what they're thinking. It is the paradox of humanity we have watched for centuries. We know your stories. So please, listen to ours, listen to what eternity entails.
1. Chapter 1

History unfolds in front of our eyes. It has done so for years, and it will continue doing so for many more.

The flow of the river of time has become repetitively unique. Everything seems so familiar – yet so different at the same time. The seasons pass in the same manner, while the people seem to be the same – same thoughts, same images, same mannerisms, same wishes. The only difference is the equipment and the ethics – but even that doesn't surprise me anymore. In fact, nothing does really.

Yet at the same time, everything does.

-* **A S****hort F****act** *-

Living for centuries is an arduous task.

It requires endless patience,

endless tolerance, endless endurance.

Not just anyone can do it,

but then again,

we are just anyone,

or everyone,

or no one.

You decide.

* * *

><p>Our complaint is comprehended by very few, and that few has dwindled down into a handful. It is very rare to come across someone who understands our plight, for people don't often have time to busy themselves with us – what with all the things you humans find interesting occupying your time.<p>

We've lived for a long time. And we'll probably continue this task for a long while. Our heartbeats like circles that repeat with no end – unlike a human's. It gets boring and tedious, at times, to observe.

'Why not just stop?'

That's a wonderfully basic suggestion, but the response is mind-bogglingly complex and impossible.

Well, we can't even consider doing that. Our task is essential to you, to the people, to existence.

Far too many people have died for us. Considering that would be an insult to their memory. And besides, you humans seem to find tormenting us much too fun. It would be a great loss to humanity if we stopped.

Oh? You haven't tormented anyone, have you? Well, you probably haven't noticed – many don't, really. Well, actually, most don't even know about it – and never do. But you humans have caused so much grief towards us; it's hard to remember most of them.

What really bothers most of us is the fact that most people say that they'd give anything to be immortal. Well, as I've mentioned earlier, not just anyone can handle it. If you didn't get what I mean earlier, that refers to most.

You humans know the pain of loss – you say you know it all too well. Alright, imagine that pain, that agony, that suffering, repeated, relived over and over. Usually, as humans, you can always follow after. But consider this: we can't. We have to endure the déjà vu of it all. We cannot do a thing about it. It is unchangeable. Unlike for humanity, it isn't that simple.

Oh, who are we? Well, that's a simple question. But the simplicity of it all hides the complexity of an existence unbeknownst to most, yet known by all.

Our existence is both acknowledged and ignored. All of you know of us, yet very few really do. Can you guess? Well, I'll give you a hint.

We have watched revolutions take place, rebellions fall, people rise, wars unfold. We have witnessed the evolution of technology and the degeneration of morality. We have seen the best and the worst of humanity – in fact, we can be manifestations of both.

We are the observers of history.

In fact, you could say that we are history. We are in the words in the text book, the crevices of names etched in an obelisk, the ink dried on a treaty. We are in the artefacts you marvel at in museums and unearth everywhere.

We are the testimonies of the past, the occurrences of the present, and the uncertainty of the future.

We are the nations for which generations have sacrificed themselves for – or so they are told. Or so I am told.

We are the ones you abandon, the ones you save, the ones you abhor, the ones you love. We are the war stories your grandfather had told you.

But never forget, we also have stories to tell.

So please listen. For it is a skill most humans seem to have forgotten.

Listen to the agony of eternity.

* * *

><p>The paradox of eternity. Listen to its call.<p>

Just so everyone knows, I'm going to be putting little stories about several different nations here. Some of them may come up more than once. Some may not come up at all. But I'll try my best.

Well . . .

I hope you'll like it. :)


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 1: A Stranger Known to the World**

'_I swore an oath to God, not to those men who claim to murder in his name.'_

_Yet why, I wonder, am I here?_

A snowy-haired teenager leaned on a jagged rock by a dying tree. Next to him, a reflection of the sky was contained within a glinting sword that looked a tad too big for him. He wore the emblem of Christ on his pristine mantle.

'What's this kid doing here anyway?'

He heard them mutter to themselves, unaware that he could hear them clearly. 'The authorities are off their rocker. I mean really,' a groggy old man started in a hushed tone, 'are they trying to traumatize this child?' The others nodded in agreement. 'Maybe he has sinned, and the church wishes him to atone for it,' another man suggested.

_They don't know who I am. All their whispers are just lies they wish to believe._

Crimson irises tensed as a sword was swung at an enemy. The blood that came after was the same shade. He panted heavily, stabbing the barren earth with his blood-stained sword. '_Inomine Patris et Filii et spiritus sancti. Amen_.'

'Is he even a child?' They continued to mutter. 'He doesn't seem to be fazed at all by what he does.' The child only sat in a distant corner, red eyes gazing into a far off flame. 'What was his name again?' Even after talking about him all this time, they never really remembered his name. 'I think it was Gilbert, or something.' One of them said. At least they were right about one thing.

_They don't understand why I'm here. But it's perfectly clear why they are. They're here to repent – or that's what they claim._

_I wonder._

Gilbert rushed forward, his sword ready in his hands. He stabbed the enemy and dropped to his knees as the other fell behind him. 'Another one vanquished,' he gasped. He wasn't usually this tired. But this time was different; they were losing. He turned to stand and face the next one.

But instead he saw a large number of his comrades lying in pools of blood in the Moorish sun.

_They will probably never know who I am. They will probably never understand why I was here as much as I understood them._

_They never had the chance to._

* * *

><p>He stood in the empire of Holy Rome, his head bowed down in front of the altar. The crusades had ended years ago. Yet the sight of his comrades still swam in his vision, flowing into his mind every so often. No one would ever remember as much blood as he would. He knelt on the ground and put his head on the ground. He prayed earnestly:<p>

_'Deus meus, ex toto corde pænitet me ómnium meórum peccatórum, éaque detéstor, quia peccándo, non solum pœnas a te iuste statútas proméritus sum, sed præsértim quia offéndi te, summum bonum, ac dignum qui super ómnia diligáris. Ídeo fírmiter propóno, adiuvánte grátia tua, de cétero me non peccatúrum peccandíque occasiónes próximas fugitúrum. Amen.'_

There he broke down. The crusades had ended years and years ago. But it was only then that he had the courage to regret it. His tears spilled onto the carpet as his sobs filled the empty church.

_They may never understand. They may never know the truth. _

_But they were as close as anyone was._

_Why had he been there?_

_What did he do to deserve it? What sin so grave had he committed that he deserved to be punished like this?_

_Why did he have to be there to witness the passing of infinity? And why did it have to be so hard?_

* * *

><p>I originally intended to make the first chapter about China because he's basically the oldest. I had already started on his story, but I had a little dilemma in continuing it because I was uncertain of which point of view to use for the story. Well, Prussia solved that problem. :)<p>

It's a short chapter, yes. But I was inspired to write this after watching _The Season of the Witch _a few days ago. The first line is quoted from Nicholas Cage's character Behmen.

Watching infinity unfold isn't as fun as it's cracked up to be. After a while, all the regrets you would not have felt may come rushing in. It can engulf you. It can consume you.

By the way, the Latin prayer Gilbert says in the church is the Act of Contrition.

I hope you like it. :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 2: Haunting Memories**

A long-haired Chinese man sat behind a dilapidated and bullet-ridden wooden wall. As he sat there with his gun in his dust-beaten arms, he could hear all the shouting - the Chinese, the Japanese, the English, the occasional French or Russian. And the bullets. The bullets often drowned out the rest.

The pitter-patter of bullets seemed endless. It was also quite tiring to listen too. 'Aiya,' the man said, trying to light a dirt-stained cigarette with bandaged hands. A loud thud suddenly came from behind the wall, startling him and making him drop the smoking cigarette. _Another one,_ he thought to himself. Another dream had just been shattered right behind him. But then again, it was normal during war. He gritted his teeth as he looked through the rafters and the collapsed roof above him. Even with the skylight trying to show the way, all he could see was smoke. The veil never let anything through. There was no light of hope, no silver lining. Just smoke.

Most people would call it a forsaken abyss. It would seem that way to most. But the man would only agree to that when the sound of the canons and bombs came. Everything was in place and hopeless. Horrible, putrid, frightening, with the smell of death lingering in the air - he absolutely abhorred it there, especially when -

A loud bang echoed through the air, making the already shaky walls tremble around him, immediately followed by a young boy in tattered garments falling toward the ground from the hole in the wall right next to him. The man cringed away from the body. He did not want to look into the face of another son, husband, father, brother, or comrade. But he couldn't help but spare a glance at the fallen soldier, just to etch into his mind another person he had to remember.

His eyes widened in shock as he recognized the slightly-disfigured face of the boy - it was a child he had played with just months ago, or was it years? His sense of time had deteriorated, having lived in nothingness for so long. The boy had had bright eyes that looked towards an even brighter tomorrow. _Why did you have to take him too? _He asked in silence to death at his shoulder. But death offered no reply, for he knew not the answers either; the man knew this fact well, having met death who knows how many times. Death simply gave him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder and the sound of thousand ton bombs as a reply.

The man flinched at the sound of the bombs. Hell had finally come for a visit. As the bombs dropped, he found that he could no longer move - whether it was because of the shock of the bombs or of the death of a friend, he did not know. He tried to escape the echoing of the bombs, the overture of bullets, and the orchestra of language. He just wanted to leave and get it over with. But death never gave him his wish.

The roof suddenly collapsed overhead, sending rubble raining down on him. A chunk hit him on the back, but the pain wasn't enough to drown out the noise - in fact, it only served to make it louder.

_Get me out of here! _

_Why don't you just let me go? I want to leave. Take me instead of all these people who have to die just to save me when I don't even want to be saved anymore!_

He felt his heart rate quicken as the thoughts raced through his head. The explosions were pure torture. He wanted them to stop. He wanted to scream at the top of his lungs for them to stop. Stop, just stop. He didn't want to hear it any longer. He tried to open his mouth to utter a cry just to drown everything out, but even then he couldn't hear himself. He collapsed onto the ground, clutching his ears. _Stop, please stop. I don't want this anymore . . . _

* * *

><p>The man awoke with a start, his breath ragged and uneven; his heartbeat was racing to get out of his chest. Remembering everything, he turned to look around. He quickly let out a sigh of relief - he was at home, sitting in his silk-cushioned chair in front of his paper-laden table; no debris, no shrapnel, no rubble, no corpses.<p>

_It was all just a dream . . ._

He buried his face in his hands and tried to relax. 'It was all just a dream,' he repeated to himself under his breath. 'None of it was real. Relax, Yao.' He told himself, breathing steadily to calm his nerves. It was difficult for him to believe as it had all felt all too real - the gunshots, the explosions, the pain - for it to be just a figment of his imagination. His heart rate had slowed down considerably when several loud bangs in quick succession echoed from the window in front of him, making him jump up from his chair in shock. 'Aiya!'

He clutched the back of his chair as his eyes immediately darted to the window. Colourful lights were dancing across the night sky as people stood below in a frenzy of excitement. It then dawned on Yao what day it was.

It was Chinese New Year.

_Of course, _he thought as he reseated himself. _No wonder I had that dream. _He ran a hand through his hair and let out a sigh. It now came back to him.

He had had that dream before - more than once, actually. It was a dream that had haunted him for quite a while - a few decades, in fact. And it always seemed to haunt him when the fireworks came and the people shouted in jubilation at new beginnings. He placed his hand over his eyes, trying to suppress the oncoming headache that always seemed to accompany the nightmare. 'When will it ever go away?' He whispered the question into the wind.

But he knew the answer to that. He even wondered why he had to ask.

_It will never go away. _He answered himself inwardly.

_Seeing all those atrocities, watching all those people die before my eyes, _

_I don't think it will ever really go away. It's never gone away. Even those memories from the Shang never went away._

_Everything I've seen will forever haunt me._

_Every time a firework goes off will remind me of those days. _

_That is my curse. _

_And I will never be able to get past that for as long as I am here. _

_It will never go away until death decides to grant my wish . . . _

_ . . . which it probably never will._

* * *

><p>I've been meaning to write this chapter since New Year - seeing as it's what inspired this chapter. But it was delayed by school and the fact that I wasn't exactly sure what to write.<p>

War is something that etches itself into your memory. After going through something like that, you may never see things the same way again.

I hope you like it. :)

I'd really appreciate it if you gave a review.

Oh yeah, I haven't forgotten about my other stories. I just find it quite a ways easier to think of chapters for this one. So don't worry.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 3: Journals from the weary || Hope?**_  
><em>

_Christmas, 1914 – Merry Christmas from the front_

Although it may be Christmas, I honestly didn't expect any gifts. 'Everyone's too busy fighting this wretched war to start giving gifts', that's what I thought.

But then the most curious and most amazing thing happened.

It started with the German troops, decorating their trenches with candles and lights. I'd thought it was to remind us that we wouldn't be home for Christmas. But my troops responded with Christmas carols, singing their hearts out in the middle of the night. It was a nice addition to the winter cold. At least it felt more like Christmas – albeit that some of the Christmas songs I was hearing was from the German side.

And then on Christmas Eve, they stopped fighting altogether. Not only that, they met in the middle of the upturned No Man's Land and celebrated the holiday. The dead were given their final respects and were buried. They laughed and talked and drank what they had. They even played soccer and shared some souvenirs from home. They didn't seem much like soldiers fighting each other – all that remained were men, smiling and laughing despite wanting so much to go home. Men who found friends in their 'enemies.'

I was quite surprised. In all my years, I had never expected such a miracle in the middle of a bloody war. Usually, the hostilities carried on despite the holidays – actually, the holidays were only given a passing glance during all the bloodshed. I mean, what cheer can be found when you're being shot at – or when you're stuck in an infirmary bleeding your hopes out.

I joined in the merriment. Goodness, I miss it.

Although his general air wasn't squashed by the war yet, Francis was more buoyant than usual. He was up to his old shenanigans. Even Ludwig couldn't help but enjoy himself. His usual serious demeanor melted away for the night. He was actually smiling.

We sat around a fire and drank to the end of the war – despite knowing that it was probably far from over. But we tried to forget about it for a moment. We tried to forget that we'd probably be forced to fight each other again when the next morning came.

I suppose we really can't do much, can we?

The war started only four months ago. Just four.

To most soldiers, that feels like an eternity. Four months away from home in some dank trench makes you miss the peace. I know I do, and I've been through longer eternities.

I know I don't necessarily have to fight. But I've gotten used to battling on the fronts. And I can't just leave everyone behind.

Not my countrymen. I just can't. Not now. Not ever.

Not all of them know who I am, I'm sure. But that's the great thing, actually: when I am amongst ordinary soldiers, I'm just another face, another friend.

I like it – despite having to live in a cold, smelly, and comfortless trench. They remind me of me - then again, I suppose I've never really been like them, have I?

That's what living through hundreds of years of human irrationality does to you, I suppose. It makes you irrational too.

Well, I seem to have strayed. I was just talking about the truce. Oh well.

I truly hope the truce continues after today. It isn't much to hope, knowing what humanity's capable of and despite all my years of being taught not to. The war is probably going to soldier on for a while longer. We're probably going to start fighting again when the air of festivity dissipates into the cold winter air, when the soldiers from the opposing sides remember that the reason they aren't home is each other.

* * *

><p><em>December 27, 1914<em>

I was right.

* * *

><p><em>Christmas, 1915 – Why did I dare hope?<em>

The memories from the previous year still lingered in my mind. Despite the disappointment, I still hoped that we could repeat it.

But orders came that we were not to fraternize with the enemy. They encouraged that we keep on shooting. And although I wanted to follow the wishes of my countrymen, orders were orders – and the other side got them too.

The war goes on. And I'm tired. I'm exhausted. As usual.

I suppose I'm tired of this war – and of wars in general. My exhaustion could also be, in part, because of the previous wars and tragedies and disasters and calamities and – you never really recover from them.

But what use is there complaining?

All I can do is sigh – whether in exhaustion or exasperation or irritation, I no longer know. It's probably all of them.

Sorry, dear, journal, but I have to get back to firing at mere children – the lost generation, as they're being called.

It's saddening, I know. But . . .

* * *

><p><strong>Author's note:<strong>

**Well, I haven't updated anything in a long while. I do apologize for that. School kept me busy for a while. :)**

**The point of view and style I used for this one is slightly different. The Christmas Truce of 1914 is one of the things that I most easily remember about the First World War because of the light it gives to the dark background of the brewing war. It's one point of time that amazes me because of the surprise it gave.**


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